One Random Night
by SherlockianMadness
Summary: My first fanfiction, one-shot. Just a random, hopefully funny night between John and Sherlock during a "no case" time and told from John's point of view. Hope you enjoy.


I wake up at three a.m. to the terrible and cutting sound of a screeching violin. How many times has this happened? I lost count a long time ago. _Why can't he just play a normal tune and stop scratching on that thing? _

He is the only consulting detective in the world; brilliant in many different spheres – except common courtesy when it suits him. And it always suits him. So this, oh, it's nothing new. Asking me to come to him when I am across town to send a text on his cell phone while he lies on the couch two feet away from it? Living in the fumes of his multiple disgusting experiments on random human appendages that take up the kitchen and most of the fridge? Dealing and letting slide the caustic remarks about any spectra of my life? Buying all the groceries and cleaning? Risking my life and limbs multiple times to help him on his cases, while he always keeps me in the dark for the most dangerous things to his welfare? Nope, all this has happened before, and it will happen again because I let it.

That beautiful, intelligent, yet sometimes so unbelievably arrogant man has taken over my life, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I probably am a masochist, but… I need what he gives me in return. The adventure, the chase, this challenging, exhilarating life – all of this in its entirety he gives to me for the sole price of my sanity during the "down" times.

Man, when I say down, I mean that. No, sadly, I am not exaggerating. It's down to the very pits of overacting teenager rebelling and child-like impulsiveness. These combined with the body of an adult and the intellect of no other human I could have even thought of before meeting him, makes a mixture that will explode at any given time when he isn't given something to take apart scientifically to the very atoms. So yeah, with all this information rattling in your brain it's easy to infer what you're thinking about the violin. This is one of those "down" times.

His body "is just transport," he says. So sleep? Not needed. He's a joy to life with, I tell you. At least _I _am never bored. Exasperated, tired and driven up the bloody wall, yes, but never bored. So I sigh, sit up, turn, rub my eyes, and walk to the living room to see if this rude awakening was an accident, or if he needs me to give him my laptop – that could very well be on the chair next to him, but he just can't be bothered to grab it when it makes more sense in his mind to wake me up than put in the effort to move three feet. I walk in and let my eyes adjust to the light, and see him sitting his chair still tearing on the violin. He doesn't say anything, but if there is anything that I have learned from living with him for this long is that he knows I am there, especially since his mind is looking for stimulus, the same way he searches for his cigarettes when I hide them in the flat, and calculating how angry I am by the force of my footsteps is just something that he might do. But, then again, when have I ever known his thought process?

So, after a while of me standing there, going from mad to resigned, I say, "Sherlock, can you knock it off? I know you don't have a case right now and you're miserable, but you don't have to make all others around you miserable also."

He lets out a sigh that a hormonal adolescent girl would be jealous of as he stops his arm's erratic movements and says, "John, do try to see things from my perspective, I know that might be too much to ask from your small and rarely used brain, but mine cannot be settled as easily as yours is with tea and a terribly corny and predictable mystery book – if you only _thought_ about it, you would have obviously realized within the first ten pages that the killer is the man living down the street with the fake mental disability. My brain is not meant for mindlessly written drivel, or sitting around to rot while this infernal city stays _law-abiding_." He says the last word with as must contempt he can muster, which is considerable, and spitting it out as if it offended him deep into his nonexistent moral fiber. Then he quickly gets back to torturing my ear buds.

_It's too early for this, _I think while I digest all he said. My first response would have been anger at his insult to my intelligence, but I long ago learned to live with the fact that, yes, I am a complete and utter fool compared to this infuriating brunette in front of me. But I am angry that he ruined that book for me – not in the sense that I thought I was actually going to enjoy it, but in the principle that if he was going to make a habit of deducing the endings of all the books that I wanted to read, then life would just get that much more unbearable here. Reading is one pastime that I enjoy, and it may seem extremely mentally dismal compared to what Sherlock can do with his intellect in the time it takes me to finish a book, but if I want to read one without being judged on my preference or my deducing skills then I think I deserve that right.

While I finally come to this conclusion that I have been wronged, I look at him and see he is probably a million miles away in his mind, and I would think of his posture as being almost languid of he wasn't furiously ruining the stings of his bow with his ministrations. The way he appears to be both of these at once has always baffled me. So, I let this one slide, as I already knew I would, and figure that I am not going back to sleep anytime soon, so I might as well make us some tea. I just say, "Right," and walk to the kitchen. I try to make bright of the situation that at least he is not harming anything other than my auditory system and my sleeping patterns – like the wall. Then I think that if he wanted murder so badly, he might actually be on the right track, because if he played this form of melody at every street corner he would have tons of homicides just from the pure annoyance.

As I get out two mugs and turn on the kettle, I try to think of things for him to do other than continuing that song that a cat would be proud of… and I truly find it hard to do. You would hope with all the mental acuity he has, that he would find himself something to do. Like I said before, though, at least it isn't the wall, _this time_, or what he used to do before I came along – drugs. Now that I think of that, I know that I should be thankful that he is taking some sort of pleasure bothering me and not harming his body any more than he already does with his irregular sleeping habits and lack of nourishment. _Oh yeah, maybe I should try to get him eat a biscuit. _I grab one knowing there is a ninety-nine percent chance that he won't eat it, and with the tea, I go in to sit next to the lunatic.

"Since you don't have a case, digestion will not be a problem; please eat and stop that racket," I say as I take a sip of my tea.

Surprisingly, he complies, and while I am doing a mental victory lap in my head, his cell phone sounds. I groan as he puts down the only thing I would have seen him eat in three days, and picks up his cell phone. He's staring at it accusingly, as if he would pummel it if it didn't give him what he so desperately wanted. Apparently it did, because the next thing I know I am shouted at with multiple words, but the ones "case," "murder" and "hurry," being the most repeated and prominent.


End file.
